


Field of Dreams

by sophiahelix



Category: Baseball RPF, The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Baseball, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:41:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5471699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiahelix/pseuds/sophiahelix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man is alone, the seats below him sparsely filled in the relentless heat, and when he hears a light, clanging tread on the aluminum steps he turns his head in mild surprise.</p><p>"Sister," he says. </p><p>"Hey," Death says. "Hot dog?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Field of Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jimmytiberius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimmytiberius/gifts).



The field is the same as the dream.

The man sitting at the top of the stands is tall and thin. His hair is dark and his skin is pale, untouched by the hot August sun. His sole concession to the thick Missouri humidity is, halfway through the second inning, the removal of his coat, long and heavy and black, lying across his bony knees. 

He watches the game. Boys stand on the chalky dirt, running, shifting, throwing, hitting. They dive into the green and elbow each other on the painted wooden benches, spitting, aping their heroes. A small boy swings a bat, warming up, checking his gloves. A tall boy rolls a ball between his hands, back and forth, fingers tracing the puckered seams and the smooth leather, thumbnail counting every stitch.

The man is alone, the seats below him sparsely filled in the relentless heat, and when he hears a light, clanging tread on the aluminum steps he turns his head in mild surprise.

"Sister," he says. 

"Hey," Death says. "Hot dog?"

She settles herself on the bench next to him. Her arms are loaded with food from the concession stands; hot dogs, soda, a box of Cracker Jack tucked under her elbow. Her dark hair is tucked up under a red cap, her face beneath its brim as pale as her brother's, and an old-fashioned pinstriped jersey billows around her slender form. 

Death crosses her legs and leans back, holding a cardboard tray of chips. She lifts one to her mouth, neon yellow cheese sauce oozing down.

"I can't imagine anything that color is actually edible," Dream says.

She bites into the chip and grins. "Isn't it wonderful?"

They watch the game for a while. The small boy comes up to bat, and there's a metallic _plink_ as he makes hard contact. The ball flies straight up and down in an easy arc, but the right fielder was staring at the clouds, daydreaming about tomorrow's fishing trip, and he sticks his glove out wildly and too late. The small crowd howls as the batter dashes around three bases, while the right fielder crawls frantically in search of the ball. When he finally gets his hand on it, he throws it six feet over the third baseman's head, leaving the runner to scamper happily home. His teammates crowd around, slapping hands and cheering, hustling him to the safety of the bench as the other boy trudges in shame back to the outfield, cheeks flaming. The teenage boy sitting beneath the big green board gets up and hangs a new number, spitting forbidden tobacco, before returning to his folding chair and his magazine.

"So. What brings you here?" Death asks.

Dream scans the bench for a moment, before pointing briefly to the tall boy still rolling his ball. 

"The pitcher?" Death asks. "Cute kid. Nice eyes. Looks familiar."

Dream looks more closely. "Yes," he says. "I see what you mean."

"I don't think he's one of hers," Death says. 

"No," says Dream. "He's one of mine."

She cocks an eyebrow at him and sets down her nachos, half-finished. Reaching into her baggy jersey, she produces a bag of peanuts and tears it open, cracking a shell between her fingertips and plucking out the nuts inside. "Is there something I should know?"

Dream shakes his head. "He's just a dreamer. But a powerful one -- his dreamscapes have unusual force. This field has been intruding itself in unexpected places."

Death cracks another peanut shell. "Is that bad?"

Dream raises one shoulder. "That sort of thing happens, from time to time."

They sit in silence. The children on the field change places, boys racing onto the grass and the dirt, pulling on gloves. Dream doesn't ask his sister what brings her here.

"So you just took the afternoon off to catch a ballgame?" Death asks finally. 

Dream snorts. "I suppose so."

"It's a pretty nifty game," Death says. "You a big fan?"

Dream smiles, slowly. "Baseball occupies a significant portion of this nation's consciousness. Several of the most prominent former players have long since been transmuted into figures of myth, and their avatars are denizens of the Dreaming."

"Oh boy," Death says. "Babe Ruth chomping a cigar? That's not real baseball."

Dream keeps smiling, shifting his gaze to the green fields. "My realm is home to so many of the half-divine. They rarely choose their own forms."

"Divine?" Death asks, and now she's the one smiling slowly. "You think baseball is a religion?"

"Look at those boys," Dream says. "The batter digs in his heel. He waggles his bat. The pitcher spits. Throws over to first. Looks at third. The catcher adjusts his cup. The shortstop crouches lower. The pitcher spits. When the ball is set in motion, a hundred small things will determine its path. The ley lines are marked. The positions are prescribed. It's ceremonial magic, simple enough for children to work, great enough to enthrall a nation of people."

Death's watching him with her chin resting on her hand, propped on her drawn-up knee. "Wow, you're a huge baseball nerd," she says. 

Dream blinks, seeming to come out of an unexpected reverie. He rubs at the back of his head, in a motion which might have been called sheepish, in one less dignified. "I've merely observed its impact on my dreamers," he says. "Like that boy there."

The tall boy with the strange eyes is on the mound now, cranking back his arm, lifting his knee. He explodes forward with a burst of controlled motion, the ball whipping past the batter, who stands still and frozen. There's a smatter of approving applause from the seats below them.

"He doesn't dream of this field only," Dream says. "There's another, much larger, guarded by great stone beasts. Sometimes it appears before my gates and puts my own guardians out of countenance."

"Poor beasts," Death says. "You should visit them more."

"There's another field sometimes, with mighty buildings in the distance. I think he may be a prophetic dreamer."

"A prophet of baseball?" Death asks. She sits up straight and yawns, cracking her back. "Or maybe a boy who falls asleep listening to games on the radio every night."

"Perhaps," Dream says. "Still. He is one of the dreamers I keep my eye on. If in the future you should come across him again in the course of other duties, you could -- do the same? As a favor to me."

"Yes," Death says, simply. She darts a slow, sidelong glance at her brother, through her kohl-rimmed eyelids, and then turns the other way. "Speaking of," she says. "I'll be back in a little while."

She descends the stairs, boots clanging as she goes. On the bottom row of the stands, near the first baseline, an old man suddenly convulses, hand going to his chest. Death makes her way to meet him.

Dream watches the game. The strange-eyed boy strikes out another batter, and then a halt is called, the adults gathering around the old man. The children mill about on the field, concern on the faces of some, impatience on others. The tall boy rolls his ball between his hands, stroking the stitches with his thumbnail.

"Sorry about your game," Death says, ascending the stairs again. She sits and reaches for the box of Crackerjack, tearing it open.

"Mm," Dream says. The children are being guided back to their benches, as the old man is laid out on the ground. Their faces are worried now, adult concerns suddenly intruding on their field of play, clouds on the horizon.

"I can't stay much longer anyway," Death says. She digs through the box of Crackerjack, knocking out pieces of sticky popcorn with her searching fingers. "But here -- ah!" She produces a small, flat, striped envelope, and offers it to her brother.

"I beg your pardon," says Dream, narrowing his eyes at the object.

"C'mon, open it," Death says. "The prize is the only reason you buy this stuff, no one actually eats it."

With a slight frown, Dream takes the proffered package and rips it open. Inside is a small, flat card, with the image of a baseball player on vivid red background, clutching a bat.

"Shoeless Joe," Death says, leaning in to look. "There's a tragedy for you. Got in over his head. Almost like he wanted to take himself down."

"Yes," says Dream. "I've met him."

"Me too," Death says. "The real guy. He's not as tall as you'd think." She reaches over and takes her brother's hand for a moment, squeezing it. "Well, gotta dash. It was nice catching up. Good luck with your dreamer."

Dream does not look at her, but he squeezes back. "Thank you, sister."

She leans in to kiss his cheek, and then she's gone, leaving a faint lingering scent of incense and sweet caramel.

The boys watch from the benches as the ambulance comes for the old man, leaving in silence with one slow light flashing. The crowd begins to disperse, gathering seat cushions and baseball equipment, packing up coolers and sunscreen. The boy with the strange eyes stands alone on the mound, still turning the ball in his hands, ignoring the voice of his mother. Finally he lifts his arm and coils himself, knee drawing up, before unleashing that burst of motion again, throwing the ball hard against the wooden backstop with a clang of the chain link fence.

He looks up. Dream meets his eyes, the serious brown, the searching blue. They regard one another.

Dream nods. The boy shakes himself and runs from the field to find his parents and brother, still calling for him from the parking lot. Dream reaches for the box his sister left behind and extracts one sticky, sweet clump, popping it into his mouth.

The field below is empty, green, still, waiting.


End file.
